


With Whispers of Silk

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-19
Updated: 2007-04-19
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8702719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Three boys have jumped to their deaths from this cliff, and Sam can't stop staring out at the ocean, despite Dean's hands pulling him away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** The poem used in this is a translation of Heinrich Heine's "Die Lorelei." Also, thanks to xtinethepirate for the countless look-overs. *hugs*

_I don’t know what it could mean,_

_that I’m so sad: I find,_

_A fairy-tale, from times unseen,_

_Won’t vanish from my mind._

 

“Dude, stop staring like that.” Dean laughs a little, but his tone is nervous, and the hand grabbing Sam’s shoulder and pulling him away is rough, concerned. “You’re starting to freak me out a little with your whole hypnotist routine.”

 

Sam’s gaze stays firmly on the ocean, towards a jutting rock cliff, a thirty-foot plunge to the dark water below. The moon is full and bright, and through the dim mist he can almost make out the wispy figure of a woman standing on the edge. He doesn’t hear Dean’s voice over the soft splash of the waves against the jagged rocks.

 

“Sam!” Dean forcefully turns his head, breaking his concentrated stare, and it’s only then that Sam can hear him, when he is distracted from the woman and the waves. He looks back, but she is gone, like she was never there at all.

 

Dean says his name again, and this time Sam hears him. He smacks his brother’s hand away, and ignores the pale look of concern so clear on Dean’s face. “It’s nothing,” he assures him, and they both know it’s a lie.

 

This is the third night in a row that Sam’s left the safety of their hotel room, their bed and Dean’s arms, to stare at the water. Neither of them talks about it, because as much as Dean wants to think it’s just cathartic to stare at the ocean and as much as Sam wants Dean to stop treating him like a six-year-old and let him _watch_ , they can’t deny the inevitable pull that the water has on Sam.

 

They’ve been in Longcove, Maine, for five days. Dean’s beginning to think it’s been five days too long, regardless of the fact that they haven’t even started to figure out what supernatural phenomena is plaguing the small fishing port. Of course, it’s hard to do any work at all when Sam spends his nights awake and staring at the ocean, and Dean spends his nights searching for and worrying about Sam.

 

Dean suggests leaving, but Sam is reluctant. He simply walks back into the hotel room, and pulls the covers back, silently asking for Dean to join him. 

 

Dean pretends that it’s going to be okay, that nothing is wrong, and pulls Sam closer to try and warm him up.

**************************

_The air is cool and it darkens,_

_And quiet flows the Rhine:_

_The tops of the mountains sparkle,_

_In evening’s after-shine._

 

It had started as a hunch that Dean had come up with over a breakfast of over-cooked eggs and too-strong coffee. They were already in Vermont, cleaning up after a poltergeist, when they found the story; three boys from a small Maine town, all eighteen, jumped to their deaths. None of them had been friends – a jock, a band member, and a nobody – and the authorities were attributing it to a cult-related suicide. 

 

“Cult-related?” Sam asked, reaching for the paper. That was all that the article mentioned about it though; the rest was a tribute to the boys, families and friends telling about how _nice_ and _wonderful_ the young men had been, and how all of this was so _devastating_. Later on, though, they managed to hack into the county sheriff’s office to see some of the autopsy photos. Everything was normal (or as normal as it could be considering that the impact of their bodies on the rocks just beneath the water’s surface had nearly broken all of the bones in their bodies) except for three small markings – probably what they suspected were cult-related symbols – tattooed onto each of the boy’s left wrists.

 

“So, you think these guys were working a little mojo?” Dean asked conversationally, rolling up his jeans and throwing them into his bag, just like usual. Packing up and getting ready to move on, just like usual. “Got themselves in too deep, and needed to get out?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Sam replied from where he was still sitting on the unmade, unused bed, leafing through their father’s journal, scanning over pages. “Those were runes on their arms, Dean.”

 

“Runes? Like, Scandinavian runes? Like, Vikings?” Dean smirked a little, then walked over, leaning heavily against Sam’s back, arms around his shoulders, his chin on top of Sam’s head until Sam grunted and shifted. “You think these guys were serious Minnesota fans? ‘Cause if they think that sacrificing themselves is going to win the Super Bowl-”

 

“Very funny,” Sam said sarcastically. “But, look what the translation is.” He pointed to the printed photos, and then held them close to the drawings and explanations in their dad’s journal. “Man. Need. Water.”

 

“Wow Sam, I think you’ve really hit on something important there.” Dean said, still chuckling. “Man does need water. And oxygen.”

 

Sam turned around to face him, lips pursed and almost too close to Dean’s, glaring at him. “Dean, when are you going to stop treating this like it’s one big joke? Three kids are dead, man. And, judging by this, I’m almost positive that it’s something paranormal that killed them.”

 

“Relax, Sammy,” Dean chided, pushing the journal away and leaning Sam backwards on the bed, until his little brother was lying on his back, Dean straddling his waist, a playful smile on his lips. “I don’t see why you’re so worked up about this. We haven’t even gone to this place yet; it might just be nothing.”

 

“How often is it just nothing, Dean?”

 

Dean bent over, biting the tip of Sam’s nose, smirking at him. “Hey, what did Dad teach you about talking back to your older brother?”

 

“Never mentioned it, actually.”

 

“Sure he did, you probably weren’t listening.” Leaning forward even more, pressing more of his weight down on Sam’s body, until they were chest-to-chest, warm skin felt even through several layers of clothes. “Never question your older brother, Sammy. He’s always right.”

 

“I think you’re deluding yourself.”

 

“I think you’re fucked.”

 

In the end, it turned out they were both right.

**************************

_The loveliest of maidens,_

_She’s wonderful, sits there,_

_Her golden jewels glisten,_

_She combs her golden hair._

 

“Why do you go out at night?” Dean asks, hand rubbing the back of his neck absently, eyes scanning the horizon, watching the sun start to sink and turn dark orange, the minutes ticking away too quickly, night catching up on them sooner than he had hoped. He wanted to get out of town today, but Sam wouldn’t have it. Sam won’t have it, and he’s already getting sullen and lethargic, just like all the other nights. 

 

If Dean wasn’t so worried about his brother, he’d be complaining about the lack of sex, but as it stands right now, the thought of something after Sam, something affecting him is so wretched to him that it turns his stomach and not even the more alluring of images can convince his body to become aroused. 

 

“I just like to watch the ocean, Dean.” Sam replies, voice listless and not really here, and Dean remembers some of the things that Sam whispers in his sleep, when he does sleep (only during the day, when whatever-it-is can’t get to him), names and words in a broken, ancient language. 

 

He’s checked their father’s journal. Said _Christo_ so many times by now that Sam’s starting to suspect Dean’s developed a nervous tick or a speech impediment. Whatever is affecting Sam, it’s not possessing him. Not really influencing him either, just making him … less. Less like Sam, and Dean is not cool with that.

 

“Bull.” Dean won’t let him go tonight. He’s made up his mind. The first night was nothing to get spooked over. The second night was a shock, because he didn’t expect him to go out after he had flipped out so much the night before. The third was when it started to get predictable. Now, on the fourth night, Dean’s decided that enough is enough. Whatever it is, it’s not getting his brother tonight.

 

Not ever again, if he has any say about it.

 

The sun sets and Dean is wide awake, nerves jittery, even as Sam settles down on the bed and falls into an instant, deep sleep, only disturbed by the occasional murmur or sigh. For hours it continues, just like this; Dean’s eyes begin to feel heavy, and his limbs feel packed with sand. Sam will occasionally roll over or shift in the bed, but for the most part, he is still. Silent. It’s only when Dean begins to nod off, consciousness beginning to waver as he slumps in the plush chair of the hotel room that Sam stirs, sitting up, almost stealthily enough to slip past Dean undetected. Almost.

 

Dean wakes to the soft _click_ sound of the door shutting, and his heart is suddenly in his throat and his eyes are burning with panic. He’s berating himself and his stupidity for falling asleep, for not keeping a better eye on Sam as he bolts from his spot, yanking the door open just in time to see Sam step off of the pavement from the hotel’s parking lot and onto the soft gravel that leads to sharp cliffs and misting ocean.

 

“Sam!” It’s as though his brother is in a trance; Sam doesn’t turn around, doesn’t give any indication that he heard Dean’s worried call, still walking slowly for the cliff ahead. Dean starts to chase after him, catching up to him quickly, before he can reach the shore. His hand feels leaden on Sam’s shoulder, and even pulling with all his strength doesn’t deter his brother’s even steps. “Sam?” 

 

“It’s all right, Dean.” Sam’s voice is quiet, more so than usual, practically melodic. Dean is almost lulled into a false sense of security by his brother’s even tones, before he manages to shake whatever-it-is off and glare at Sam, now pulling with both hands, trying to dig his heels into the ground to stop them from making it all the way to the shoreline.

 

“Sam, stop.” Dean grits his teeth, desperate. “Please?” Sam’s always been a sucker for this girl moments, maybe he’ll give in this time, maybe he’ll stop …

 

“Don’t worry.” Sam’s smile is blinding and large, but it’s not his. Sam _never_ smiles like that, like he’s really happy. There’s always the shadow of guilt behind his eyes, covering every expression. But this smile is different, completely free and fake, like a pasted-on mask covering up his brother’s face. “Everything is going to be okay.”

 

“I’m not going to let you go alone, Sam,” Dean says, because it’s become obvious that Sam is going, whether or not Dean likes it. And Dean’s not the kind of guy to ever give in, ever back away from a situation and admit that he’s lost. Only … only it’s _Sam_ , his Sammy telling him how this is, and even though he’s getting this awful feeling of _wrong wrong wrong_ , he can’t say no to his brother.

 

But he can sure as hell follow him wherever he goes. 

 

“You don’t have to. I want you to come, Dean.” Sam turns around now, at the foot of the cliff, solid rocks under his feet, and holds out his hand, still smiling too-perfectly at his brother. “Come with me.”

 

Dean doesn’t do the hand-holding thing. That doesn’t stop him from taking Sam’s hand regardless, and his brother’s skin is clammy and soft when he touches it, and he knows that if he was to pull the slick palm to his lips and taste, it would be salty and bitter. 

 

Sam leads him to the summit, and together, the two of them stand there, in silence, and Sam watches the ocean. And Dean doesn’t ever let go.

**************************

_She combs it with a comb of gold,_

_And sings a song as well:_

_Its strangeness too is old_

_And casts a powerful spell._

 

“So, this is where Tom, Dick, and Mark took the swan dive, huh?” Dean asked, looking out over the edge onto the ocean below. “Well, it sure is … scenic.”

 

“That wasn’t their names,” Sam said absently, crouched down next to him, ghosting his fingers over the cliff rocks, before looking up and out to the ocean. “And yeah, this is where the police chief said it happened.”

 

“And you said that there were six other instances of this happening in the past one hundred years?” Dean asked, not picking up anything with the EMF at all. “You’d think they’d put up a fence or something, you know, after the forth Joe jumped.”

 

“You’d think,” Sam agreed, his brows crinkled in sudden concentration, and his crouch wavered, a gust of wind picking up and landing him on his backside on the rocks, a soft whimper escaping his pursed lips suddenly. Dean just looked down at him, eyes shining with sudden mirth.

 

“Can’t hold your _one_ beer you had for lunch, Sammy?” He extended a hand, helping Sam up to his feet, not really noticing just right then how cold Sam’s hands were. “You really wasted four years of your life at college, didn’t you? I almost don’t want to claim you as my brother with that weak-ass tolerance of yours.”

 

“It’s not the beer,” Sam said, still staring out at the ocean, looking for all the world like he was _listening_ to something. 

 

Dean’s eyes widened and he followed Sam’s gaze, trying to see if there was anything out there, anything at all, that would catch Sam’s attention like that. “What is it, Sam?” he asked, voice quieter now, wondering if Sam had maybe picked up something with his psychic _whatever_ that he had.

 

Sam stayed quiet for a really long time, and then finally turned his eyes away from the ocean, and for a split second, Dean could have sworn that they were bluer than normal, instead of his normal hazel. Sam smiled, and it looked forced. “It’s nothing, Dean. Just … nothing.”

**************************

_It grips the boatman in his boat_

_With a wild pang of woe:_

_He only looks up to the heights,_

_Can’t see the rocks below._

 

Sam’s lips crash against his suddenly, nearly taking his breath away from him. He tastes salt on his brother’s lips, inside his mouth, the scent of the ocean invading his senses. Sam’s hands cradle his head, tenderly. 

 

Dean knows almost instantly that it’s not his brother anymore. No matter how much they care about one another, no matter how intensely their feelings for each other are, this is always the same between them; hard, unrepentant. Clashing teeth and tongues, almost painful and hot, so good it almost melts every bone in his body.

 

But this is softer, sweeter, and Dean knows that if his eyes weren’t open, if he wasn’t staring at Sam right now, that he would think he was kissing someone else. He tries to pull away from Sam’s tempting lips, and after a short while, manages to back off, somewhat surprised to find his hands wrapped tightly around Sam’s waist, holding his younger brother close, fingers caught in Sam’s belt loops.

 

The smile that Sam gives him is not his own, and the eyes that look at him are as blue as the ocean. “Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is softer, graceful, and he leans in for another kiss. “Dean.”

 

“Where’s Sam?” Dean manages to ask before his mouth is captured again, and when he does close his eyes, the image that is conjured by his over-active imagination is breathtaking; a pale blonde woman, standing in front of him, her dress white as the breaks of the waves, her blue eyes bright with mirth, adorned with pearls and sapphires. He can almost feel the silk of her dress brushing against him, and when he opens his eyes again, Sam’s still there, and he’s pulling back again.

 

“Do you love me?” Sam asks, and starts to lower him to the ground. And the rocks are cold and hard underneath him, but the moon is bright and he can see every bit of his brother clearly, perfectly. Dean knows that he should be fighting this, knows that this isn’t his Sam, _his_ Sam, but his brother’s mouth is warm and _there_ and those hands feel so good on him, and even though the ground is too hard and the salt from the ocean is starting to sting his eyes, he doesn’t have the power to stop this. Doesn’t _want_ to stop this.

 

“I love Sam,” he says, compromising internally. He won’t say that he loves whatever-it-is that’s housed in his brother’s body right now, he won’t. But it isn’t any secret that he loves his brother, even if he doesn’t say it very often. He really hopes that Sam is conscious enough in his own body to hear him say that, before a hot hand presses against his erection and he is lost to the warmth and feel of his brother’s body.

 

Sam makes a whining noise, like that’s not what he wanted to hear – _serves you right, you bitch,_ Dean thinks vindictively – before burying his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder, nuzzling the short hairs there, tongue coming out to trace Dean’s ear, to bite at his earlobe. But it’s still too soft, too sweet; they almost never waste time on foreplay. It’s usually quick, hard, over fast enough so they can both get some much-needed rest. That’s not to say that it’s not good, and sometimes Dean thinks about going slow with Sammy, getting to know his brother’s body, learning to make Sam just melt under his fingers, lips, and tongue, but whenever he can get Sam like this, he can never slow himself down.

 

Dean hates that it’s taken something to possess his brother, or whatever’s going on inside that freaky brain of Sam’s, for them to be like this. Slow. Sweet.

 

So Dean does what he can do to make this right. Make it like them. His hands go for the front of Sam’s jeans, yanking off the belt and ripping open the buttons, fly going down and hands delving in through boxers to grab a hold of his erection. Sam makes a soft yelp when his fingers close around his brother’s dick, his breath warm against Dean’s neck.

 

Dean growls and rolls the two of them over, looking down in Sam’s not-right eyes and fisting his erection harder, trying to make harder, louder noises come from Sam. But he won’t get his way; Sam continues to keen and sigh softly, smile on his lips and white teeth shining in the night.

 

“What are you?” Dean asks as he pulls his hand out, grabbing Sam’s jeans at the waistband and yanking them – along with his boxers – down and off, leaving Sam completely naked from the waist down. Sam’s legs instantly wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and Dean’s dick gets even harder (if that was even possible) at the feel of Sam’s warm, moist skin pressing onto him through only the layer of his jeans. “Where’s my brother?”

 

“It’s all right, Dean.” And for a second, Dean swears that it’s Sam again, all Sam, his Sammy, underneath him. Then he smiles again and it’s like he’s missing, pulled under the waves that he has been staring at for days, leaving Dean with something else, something that clearly wants the two of them to get freaky.

 

Dean’s seen a lot of interesting possessions before, but this has been the most outlandish one so far. And while he doesn’t really feel comfortable about using Sam’s body while Sam’s not in control of it, really _using_ Sam, he thinks that maybe if he does this, gives the damn thing what it wants, it will let Sam go and they can get the hell out of here.

 

“What do you want?” he asks, tearing his hands away from his brother’s perfect body to release himself from his jeans, getting up on his knees (difficult with Sam’s legs around him, but still doable) to push them down just enough so that he’s freed his erection, shiny and dark red. Sam’s eyes widen when he catches sight of it, like he _hasn’t_ seen Dean’s dick a million times before, and that hits Dean like a sour punch to the gut. Lucky for the both of them that does nothing to wilt his erection.

 

“I want someone to love me,” Sam says, voice soft and high-pitched, and in the back of his mind, Dean can almost hear the whisper of a woman’s voice speaking along with his brother. “Can you love me?”

 

_Not you. Not you. I love my brother, not you,_ Dean thinks, closing his eyes and imagining his Sammy, ignoring the feel of silk against his exposed skin, so real, fingers fisting in locks of hair far longer than they really ought to be, leaning over to press a kiss to lips that are no longer Sam’s, delicate and feminine. “I can love you,” he says, opening his eyes, his brother there once more in body if not spirit. “If you leave him alone, I’ll love you.”

 

“I just want someone to love me,” Sam says, and he sounds sad, lonely, and Dean hates to hear it. 

 

“I’ll love you. I love you, Sam.” His brother shifts under him, legs wrapped even tighter around his waist now, and he probably couldn’t get away now even if he wanted to. The splash of the water against the rocks below, the rising mist from the ocean, has left a sheen of salty water on his back, on Sam’s legs, on his face and in his hair. Sam moves again, almost in the right spot, almost perfect, and Dean deliriously wishes that he had some lube, _something_ with him, to make this easier on his brother. They’ve done before without, and Dean knows somehow that Sam’s consented to this, to _all_ of this, but it still feels wrong.

 

He kisses Sam again as he slowly enters his brother, body shifting and moving around him to let him inside, so deep he think he could get lost inside of his brother’s body forever. He goes slow, tries to stop himself from just thrusting, knowing that no matter what Sammy’s going to be sore in the morning. 

 

But for now, Sam’s giving no indication that this is painful or in any way uncomfortable. Instead, he begins to hitch his hips from under Dean, coaxing his brother in deeper, eyes wide open and impossibly blue, tears welling out and running down sharp cheekbones. Dean stills when he’s completely inside, watching his brother’s face, looking for anything that’s Sam and almost moaning with frustration when he finds nothing. 

 

He closes his eyes again, and begins to cant his hips back and forth. When he reaches for Sam’s dick, he only feels smooth stomach and the silk of a hiked-up skirt. The legs cradling him are delicate and smooth, and the lips that he is kissing taste of salt and brine. He feels soft breasts underneath his chest and the shock is enough to pry his eyes open, and at once it’s all gone, every bit of it, and when he looks back up into Sam’s eyes they are hazel and warm and his smile is shadowed with guilt.

 

“Sam,” Dean says, moaning, his hand finally enclosing his brother’s familiar erection as he continues to thrust, moving inside of his brother and pumping his dick in time. Sam arches and grunts, moving his hips back against his brother, their pace faster, their lovemaking dissolving into furious fucking. Just like them. 

 

When Dean finally comes, deep inside of his brother, spasming muscles surrounding him, Sam’s come a warm-wash of salt on his fingers, he’s silent. And in the distance, he can hear a woman sigh, and a faint, warm summer breeze picks up.

 

Sam pulls him down and kisses him deeply, and he can taste the hamburger Sam had for dinner and his peppermint toothpaste. The waves are a distant background sound, forgotten to the pair of them.

**************************

_I believe the waves swallowed_

_The boat and its boatman,_

_That’s what, by her singing,_

_The Lorelei has done._

 

The next morning they left bright and early, neither really wanting to stay any longer than was necessary. Dean spared one final look out to the cliff, completely bathed in sunlight and so innocuous-looking you would never suspect that it might have been dangerous. 

 

Sam never looked away from Dean, his eyes boring into the back his brother’s skull. Dean hadn’t really said much of anything since they both stumbled back, sore and tired, to the hotel room, and he knew that Sam wouldn’t press him to say anything, waiting instead for Dean to break and start asking him … start screaming or yelling or accusing or whatever he felt like doing at the time.

 

When Dean finally broke and turned back to look at Sam, he couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. Instead, he looked down at Sam’s arms, eyes instantly drawn to a spot of black that had never been there before. Grabbing indelicately, Dean pulled Sam’s arm away from his body, the rune marked clear and deep into the skin of his brother’s forearm.

 

“What the hell is this, Sammy?” Dean asked, his voice cold and toneless.

 

Sam laughed, and Dean wanted to punch him, because it was _not_ the time for humor. Dean’s glare could have cut steel, and Sam finally managed to look somewhat contrite before pulling his arm back to himself, looking at the rune and sighing softly. “It’s … it means ‘gift.’”

 

“And when the hell did you run off to get a tattoo, Sammy?” Dean asked, already knowing that Sam hadn’t left at all, as he hadn’t let his brother out of his sight the entire time they were in Maine. 

 

“She … I let her use me, Dean,” Sam said, now looking away, out the window, and Dean was absurdly thankful that the coastline was on his side of the car. He was planning on taking them somewhere landlocked, in the middle of the freaking country, where the only bodies of water were farm ponds. “When we went out to the cliff for the first time, I … I guess I sensed her.” Sam sighed, and looked away from the window, down at his hands again. “I don’t know who she was; I think she’d been there for a long time. And all I could get from her was that she wanted someone to love her.”

 

“Sort of like a woman in white deal?” Dean asked, trying to distance himself from the entire situation, trying to pretend that it didn’t really happen, just another note to jot down in Dad’s journal.

 

“More like … you know the Lorelei legend, right? Or, the Greek sirens? She was unloved, watching out to the sea for her lover to come back to her. I guess that any guy in the area who was loveless, like her, would hear her, and come out to the cliff.”

 

“So, you just let some homicidal ghost use you, is that it?” Dean asked, finally starting to feel the anger that he had been holding deep inside come out. “How could you be so freaking stupid, Sam? Rule number one: never let pissed off ghosts possess you.”

 

“She wasn’t pissed off, Dean. She was just lonely. I probably wouldn’t have ever heard her except because…” Sam trailed off, sighing heavily, looking back out the window again.

 

“Yeah, I know, your special super psychic powers of wow. Awesome.” Dean kept staring straight ahead, watching with grim satisfaction as the _Now Entering New Hampshire_ sign came into view. “This gonna happen a lot then? Every time you and me come across a lonely ghost, you’re just gonna open yourself up like a paranormal boarding house?”

 

“It wasn’t like that, Dean. It was-”

 

“Oh, so it wasn’t like that, huh?” Dean interrupted, looking away from the road and right at his brother. “Because I have a pretty good idea what it was like. I’m thinkin’ that you let some ghost get in your head, let it convince you that possessing you would be a good idea, and then you let it use you to get off. How’s that sounding, Sam?”

 

Sam glared at him. “You didn’t say no, Dean. I was there, man. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She didn’t _possess_ me. She was just … I was just being a focal point for her spirit, to ground her so she could be released. I was just as much there as you were, Dean. And you didn’t stop.”

 

Dean sighed, and looked back at the road. Sam was right, the bastard. No matter which way he looked at it, Dean was just as guilty as Sam was. “So, why’d you get a souvenir tattoo then? Is it kind of part of the deal, I’ll use you as a _focal point_ ” – Dean rolled his eyes at this; Sam’s such a geek sometimes – “and you’ll get a cool tat to show off to your buddies?”

 

“It means ‘gift,’ Dean.”

 

“Yeah, I know, you already said that. What kind of weak-ass gift is that, though? Wouldn’t you rather have gotten-”

 

“It’s not a gift for me, Dean.” Sam’s voice was quiet, reflective, and Dean chanced a look away from the road again. Sam was looking down, fingering the mark absently, and his lips were quirked into the shadow of a smile. “I’m the gift.”

 

“Don’t see you runnin’ around in a pretty red bow, Sammy. What, were you a gift for her?”

 

“No … for you.” Sam looked back up, eyes shining, and Dean’s girl-moment radar suddenly went off the charts. Dean vowed right then and there to rent porn at the hotel that night. “She gave me as a gift to you. I guess to apologize for kind of … borrowing me.”

 

“So what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Dean asked cautiously. 

 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Dean.” Sam sounded a little crestfallen, but he continued anyways. “It’s just … I don’t know, some supernatural blessing or something. I didn’t realize I’d get it at the time … no one will really know what it is, unless they read runes.”

 

“I see.” Dean said, then quickly, impulsively, turned off of the main road, onto a gravel pathway that quickly wound into the forest, pulling to a stop, dust settling all around them. 

 

“What are we doing, Dean?” Sam asked, looking around.

 

Dean smirked. “So, let me get this straight, for the record.” Sam nodded, and Dean went on. “You let some dead ghost chick _borrow_ you, because she was lonely and you picked up on that. Meanwhile, for boning you when she was kinda under your skin, she does you up all pretty and gives you to me as a present. How am I doing so far?”

 

“Pretty good,” Sam replied, his breath quickening as Dean inched closer to him, hands leaving the wheel and tightening in the front of Sam’s shirt. “Dean, what are you doing?”

 

“I’m thinkin’ that now? I kinda wanna unwrap my present.”


End file.
